


she looked like art

by plinys



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-11-21 15:46:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11360562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/pseuds/plinys
Summary: “I need a distraction,” she says, and he glances away from the canvas to look over at her.“You are a distraction.”





	she looked like art

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheSushiMonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSushiMonster/gifts).
  * Inspired by [the longest infinity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11238522) by [TheSushiMonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSushiMonster/pseuds/TheSushiMonster). 



> This is inspired by and in gift to the most wonderful author and her incredible fic that everyone seriously needs to go read right now. Thanks for letting me play in your universe, I hope this lives up your hopes and dreams.

 

It’s starts like this. 

Her laptop balanced on her knees, playing an electro pop tune out for both of them to work too, staring at a blank word document until her head starts to hurt.

Him, humming along to the tune, the irregular beat, while somehow managing to remain focused and productive.

She envies that productivity. Just a little. 

Just enough that she sets her laptop aside, and moves over to where he’s working. Painting, bottles of paint across the table, brushes resting in cups of water, and on a palette he’s stopped using halfway through too caught up in his creative process to pour more out. It’s not a mess not really, he’ll have it all clean when he’s done. 

It’s a sign of a creative process. 

One that’s currently escaping her. 

“I need a distraction,” she says, and he glances away from the canvas to look over at her. 

“You are a distraction.” 

She rolls her eyes at him, because this is his way and that’s not the point. 

They both know that. At least, she assumes so, judging by the way he carefully sets the brush he had been working with down, and uses his now free hand to brush up against her thigh. 

There’s a smear of yellow paint, bright against her skin, from where it had previously been on his thumb. There’s something about that, the contrast, the  _ art  _ of it, that pushes her forward kissing him. Almost unsure at first, as if this was the first time, not the hundredth time. 

He doesn’t hesitate in kissing her back, his head tilted to meet hers, the hand against her thigh tightening slightly to hold her in place. She moans into his mouth, and he moves then. Pulling them apart for a brief moment, just long enough from him to stand up, but still long enough that she can feel his absence. 

He kisses her again from the proper angle, this time his hands are moving to rid her of her shirt. She has half a mind, half a thought that the paint on his hands will ruin the shirt - his shirt technically, that she had been wearing since this morning - before forgetting all about it as those very hands trace up her sides leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“We should,” he says between kisses, “Bed?”

“Too far,” she says, feeling a little reckless, normally she’s the one that insists on taking this to a bed out of decency. When he insists it’s out of a gentlemanly illusion. 

“Too far,” he echoes, agreeing with her and kisses her again. 

She makes quick work of his pants, not fumbling with it as she might have before, but moving with a practiced ease. 

Her back collides with his art table, going where she’s pushed without any question, all the better angle to pull him towards her. This wasn’t what she’d had in mind when she’d been trying to beat her writer’s block, but as he pulls down her shorts and panties all in one go, she doesn’t find that she minds in the slightest. 

“Condom,” she says, breaking apart for air, only briefly for a moment. 

“Bottom drawer, let me just,” he bends down, opens one of the draws of his art table and she watches idly for a moment as he moves aside a box of charcoal to pull out a roll of condoms. 

“Why am I not surprised?” 

“You know me,” he says.

And she does. 

Doesn’t she?

She puts a hand back to brace herself, as she pushes up onto the table, letting out a small noise of surprise as he hand touches something cold and wet and not solid and -

“Paint. Shit, Ros - we should move.”

“Too late,” she points out, shifting her weight to her other hand and using the one covered in paint to pointedly reach forward and rub a streak of blue across his chest. 

It’s a bit silly.

And she’s sure it’s not supposed to turn her on more, but her smiles at her in a way that is so genuine and real that it makes her heart clench, and sends shock waves through the rest of her body, and she wonders how she got lucky enough to have this man.

She knows the answer, but refuses to thank her former roommate for moving out and leaving her with Benvolio. Not when there’s better things that she could be doing. 

Another splash of blue paint, this time along the back of his neck as she reaches up to pull him towards her. To get him to kiss her like she so desperately needs. 

He does. 

He kisses her.

And touches her, with paint stained fingertips. 

And when he presses inside of her, she lets out a moan that’s half his name and half something else. All the encouragement he needs to keep going, to keep doing exactly what she had so desperately needed. 

She falls back against the table, certain now that they are making a mess, that something is getting knocked to the floor and that she’ll need to spend hours in the shower later getting the paint off of her skin, but not minding in the slightest.

Runs her fingers through a mix of oranges and reds, and when he entwines his hands with hers, holding their both steady as they thrust together the colors mix like a sunrise that will later linger there against their skin.

“Beautiful,” he tells her. 

“My masterpiece,” he calls her. 

“Yes,” she replies because that’s all she can say, all that she can manage. 

All she can focus on is Benvolio. Here. Above her. Inside of her. Kissing her like his very life depending on it. Open mouth and breathless when she forgets how the rest of her body is suppose to react when overwhelmed with such intense levels of pleasure. 

This was what she had needed.

The steady point of focus she needs to get out of her mind. 

Him. 

“Ben- please,” she says, half choked words. Not fully formed thoughts, because she can’t. 

She doesn’t need to. He understands her.

He pushes her through it, the crescendo of pleasure, too intense to hold onto anything or anyone. He follows her somewhere after, in the middle of her pleasure, she comes down to the sound of him calling out her name, the most beautiful sound in the world.

They stay there for a moment. 

Breathing against each other.

Remembering how to. 

Chests heaving. 

Only really coming back to life, when his fingers rub against her hip bone, something she can focus on and ground her, the smear of red paint their against her hip. 

“We’re a mess,” she states the obvious, because it was that or thanking him for the best orgasm of her life, and she was certain that wouldn’t help his ego.

“I’ll clean this up,” he insists, “Later.”

“Later,” she agrees. “Though perhaps first, you could join me in the shower?”

 

 

 


End file.
